


Canis lupus familiaris

by dehautdesert



Series: The Third Aspect [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Animal Death, Battle, Childbirth, Cliche, Daemons, Decapitation, First Meetings, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-14 11:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dehautdesert/pseuds/dehautdesert
Summary: It is known that to every Elf and Man there are three aspects: the body, the soul... and the daemon.In which Finrod meets a man, Caranthir meets a woman and Celebrimbor meets a dwarf. The first two have daemons. The third has something else.





	1. Melopsittacus undulatus

**Author's Note:**

> Not absolutely necessary to read the other parts of this series to understand this, especially if you're familiar with daemon-verse fics, but it helps with head-canon specific to this verse, and some character development.
> 
> Skip to the end for a list of daemons appearing in this part - their forms might not be made entirely explicit in the text. For this verse I decided to have some fun and give the daemons names of mythological characters from our world, some random, some very on-the-nose in terms of symbolism. The title of each part is the binomial species name of one of the daemons featured in the chapter - in this case, that of Beor - but also that of the species that is associated the most with the race of Men in-universe.
> 
> This part is also probably going to be the longest in the series, and will have three chapters. The title of the first is a reference to Finrod's daemon. As for what happens... prepare for cliches.

 

_*~*~*_

 

 

_"… the daemons of Elves too, had names for the daemons of Men, both in their own tongue and in the languages of the elves, and were often heard to call them either the 'shape-changers', since the daemons of young men and women would change form until they settled into adulthood, or the 'dog-people', since so many daemons of Men took that particular form for themselves._

_In turn there were many among the Edain-daemons who called their Eldar counterparts by words meaning 'bird-people' or 'feathered ones', since their daemons more often took those forms even than daemons of men took of dogs or wolves, and because of this were spread such fanciful rumours that many Men entering Beleriand believed that elves could fly alongside their daemons – and some still do believe this._

_After this, it is said, even some Dwarves took to differentiating Elves from Men by naming them 'the winged ones' and 'the hounds'. They in turn were ironically called both 'they who are half' and 'they who are whole' by various denominations of the other races."_

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Findarato blinked and stared closer but the picture remained the same; the fire was roaring, the people were singing and closest to where he watched them from the curly-haired child's daemon was a polecat of some kind.

 

A few seconds ago, it had been a lemur.

 

He stared more. Part of him longed to rush out and see what harm had befallen the child, for he had only seen a daemon change its form thrice in his entire life; only after great sorrow and near-death had befallen their respective elf upon the Helcaraxe, and held up against the sheer numbers of those who had been lost and the loved ones that had survived them, weak and starving, that still only three daemons had changed form thusly made what Findarato had just seen intensely alarming – but before he could do aught –

 

"There!" hissed Nausicaa. "Another!"

 

Findarato turned his head quickly, just quickly enough to see a faint golden glow dissipating over the long-tailed tit daemon that hopped across the shoulder of a young girl with stringy gold hair – perhaps twelve years old at most.

 

"He changed form?" Findarato asked.

 

"Yes," said his daemon. "He was a gecko of some kind a moment ago." Quick as a whip lash she fluttered off his shoulder and onto a branch closer to the camp fire.

 

Findarato winced when he noticed the first boy whose daemon had changed form turn his head towards them when she moved – for the bird whose shape Nausicaa appeared in was not native to these parts – but he only looked for a moment, then blinked and turned back.

 

… and Findarato did not see the weight of any agony or grief in this boy's eyes.

 

_Nor in the girl with the bird that was a lizard,_ thought Nausicaa. _And yet, the light of their inner souls is dimmed, don't you think?_

 

It was true, not only those children but all of these people glowed but with what the fire gave them. Some seemed even further afflicted – stooped backs, grey hair and faces shrivelled; he saw five male and three female in varying stages of this wastage, and all their clothes were roughly made and worn, and many stained. He saw one lady shiver and rub her arms as though cold, and one of her companions pulled her close and put his arm around her, yet it was not even snowing.

 

Surely, though their song was joyful, these people had been through some terrible hardship.

 

_Avari?_ he wondered. _Is it possible some of those who were stayed behind became so different to those of us who took the journey?_

 

_Perhaps,_ thought Nausicaa, _but Findarato – why so few birds?_

 

She was right – there were few birds. A yellow-eyed duck with black crest was sat in the lap of one maiden, a small owl on the shoulder of one of the grey-haired ladies close by; one man was talking animatedly with a bronze songbird flapping from shoulder to shoulder, and a lean youth probably no more than fifty summers stood back apart from the others on the other side of the camp with folded arms, while on a branch above his head was some sea-bird with long wings.

 

There were probably others he did not see, Findarato told himself. Yet it remained that of all the daemons he could see, less than a third at most were birds. Indeed, there were more dogs alone than birds that were visible to his eyes; six, seven – the eighth one was perhaps a jackal, but he counted three cats (house or otherwise) as well, and a striped squirrel, a strange, plated beast he had no name for, a porcupine, another polecat… one small girl ran suddenly to the other side of the camp with a hare hopping after her –

 

… who hopped right onto her shoulder when she stopped, and in a puff of gold dust became a monkey-like thing with enormous orange eyes. Findarato almost snapped the branch he was holding in his fist he was so shocked.

 

But the little girl was laughing. The grey-haired woman with the owl daemon she ran to grinned back (and Findarato was shocked to see she had teeth missing) like nothing was the matter; pointed at the daemon so she must have seen it change, said something in their language to the girl that made her shake her head rapidly, before kissing her forehead with false growling noises.

 

_Findarato_ , Nausicaa addressed him mind to mind. _I don't think these people are Avari, or of the Quendi altogether._

 

_The second people?_ Findarato wondered. _The ones the Valar spoke of?_

 

She flew back to him. "Perhaps."

 

Again, the boy from before turned his head towards their hiding place, and this time he stared longer into the brush, and tugged on the sleeve of the male – the _man_ – in front. But that man waved him off and pointed to the lady with the owl daemon, around whom more children had now gathered.

 

And in quick succession, dog to stoat, frilled lizard to dog and toad to red squirrel, three more of their daemons changed shape; old skin brushing off in wisps of golden powder.

 

"Did you see that!?" Findarato whispered.

 

"I saw," said Nausicaa.

 

"And the dust that comes off of their transformation; is it not like that a daemon's physical form becomes when they have been slain?"

 

"It is," she confirmed. "But Findarato, they do not seem to be in any pain at all. And more than that, I do not feel that anything is wrong when I see them change – as if there is some knowledge in my heart that their shifting is not unnatural that my head does not yet grasp."

 

Her words struck accord with Findarato's own feeling; no shadow had come over him despite his alarm. He regarded the group again: there were seven young children now in all about the lady, whose arms spread wide and whose voice was crooked but grand – she was story-telling, he surmised.

 

Then from the east and the simple tents beyond two girls came walking around the edge of the camp, and Findarato would have said they were in their mid-thirties. One had brown hair in a simple braid going down her back, and brown eyes; the other was grey-eyed and orange-haired, with many a freckle on her cheeks. Her daemon was a dog, small and grey, and her companion's a badger of some sort.

 

Nausicaa hopped to Findarato's other shoulder, then to another nearby branch, to look closer, and as the pair drew nearer to where they were hidden she peered hard at their daemons.

 

_What do you see?_ Findarato asked her.

 

For what seemed a long time, she still looked silently. The dog daemon whispered something in the badger's ear while their maidens conversed – the brunette sullen, the redhead sympathetic in demeanour. Then Nausicaa spoke in his mind:

 

_I have a feeling, Findarato, though I do not know if it is merely fancy or not, that that girl's dog might change its shape if we keep watch… but the other's badger; he will not._

 

Findarato frowned. _What makes you think that?_

 

Again, there was a long pause before Nausicaa decided, _I think it is because she is a little older than her companion. Have you noticed all those daemons who changed their form were of young children?_

 

She was right – another daemon in the larger group of children shifted from lemming into parakeet, its partner a child with wild hair whose gender Findarato could not tell – a four-year-old, or thereabout. He looked back at the two older girls, as the brunette rolled her eyes and huffed, waving an arm at the gathering before folding them in front of her chest. One of the men paused in his song to ask her something – she answered with annoyance; he laughed fondly and shook his head before he returned to his song.

 

The girls were coming close enough now for Findarato to hear, though of course he did not understand the words, but then the dog stopped – and, as Nausicaa had guessed, became a hare; rising up on his hind legs.

 

His companion stopped and said something, and two steps later the two girls slowed to halt and turned back. The hare spoke.

 

"The language is familiar," Nausicaa muttered.

 

"You can understand their daemons?" Findarato asked her. The hare changed back into the dog it had been before.

 

"A little."

 

"What do they say?"

 

She paused. "I believe they're wondering if the one in the bushes with the glowing skin thinks they're actually concealing themself from them."

 

"Hmm… wait what?"

 

That was when, in a truly magnificent display of the grace of the Eldar, Findarato slipped on the branch he stood on in his shock and tumbled head-first out of the thicket, straight onto the edge of the camp.

 

He managed to twist into a favourable position before he hit the ground, and had not been all that high up besides, but the fall still stunned him for a moment and he scrambled back up to regain his bearings while in the background he heard two gasps of shock, and the noise of worn sandals hurrying away from him.

 

All of a sudden, the song and music that accompanied it stopped.

 

Findarato swept his cloak back (it would not hide him now, and apparently hadn't been before) and looked out at the gathering; to a man staring back at him wide-eyed while children were pushed behind the adults and larger daemons dragged their smaller ones away. Flint knives were drawn; one man reached for an axe made of the same; from the other end of the camp the youth with the seabird daemon ran over to the side of the fire and there was a slingshot in his hand. None of the people rushed forth to attack him or made any move that suggested that they might, but fear and wonder were in their eyes; the only sounds were of the flames crackling and dogs – true and daemon alike – barking warnings at him.

 

Findarato swallowed. His heart was beating fast.

 

_Nausicaa!_ he thought desperately. _What do I do!?_

 

_I don't know!_ she answered.

 

_I thought my cloak was concealing the glow!_

 

_Yes, but they were talking about_ me! she snapped. _You didn't have to fall out of the tree like an idiot!_

 

But she flew down from the tree to his shoulder afterward, and at once he saw the people before him relax a slight amount at the sight of a daemon on his shoulder. Yet still they were silent, and fearful, and he knew not what to say to them.

 

Knowing their lingering fear did not bode well for himself nor Nausicaa, he searched the crowd and their surroundings for something he might use to show he meant no harm – something other than his holding up his hands dumbly as he was doing now. But apart from spare furs and cooking utensils the only items about the campfire were…

 

… the instruments.

 

There was something resembling a harp resting against a rock between him and which there lay no people. The man who had played it earlier had got up to take some sustenance a few minutes ago. Findarato began to walk towards it, slowly, yet not too slowly.

 

_You're going to sing?_ Nausicaa asked him.

 

_Well, if we know one thing about them, we know they like song_ , thought Findarato.

 

_Though they are not very gifted in it…_

 

_Hush. Let us see what they thing of the songs of the Eldar._

 

Around the fire some hands gripped their weapons tighter; yet Findarato noticed out of the corner of his eye only one man seemed about to move towards him, and another man held out his hand when he moved. He was fifteen feet away from the first at least, but his silent command was obeyed without question, and Findarato also noticed that this second man's daemon, one of the dogs, was the only one neither growling nor barking – though she was certainly watchful.

 

She was also the largest daemon present. Findarato took a deep breath.

 

The song he sung was one of the elder chants from long before his own birth, telling of his grandfather's journey across the sea from Beleriand. Not Finwe – for the songs of the Noldor were great, but the songs of the Teleri were lovelier still, at least to Findarato's mind, and it was of Olwe he sung – of how he looked back three times along the way to see if his brother followed. Of how each time his daemon Cassandra counselled him to look ahead to the light of Aman instead.

 

Of how, at the very last when they reached the shores of their destination, Cassandra herself looked back for any sign of rose Demeter, but saw her not. Perhaps, the song suggested as Cassandra's imagining, her sister followed after all, but was only camouflaged by the band of rosy sky between the light of the west and the darkness of the east that now distinguished dawn and dusk.

 

Of course, it was now known such thoughts were merely flights of fancy; Demeter had remained behind indeed, and was no longer at all dawn-like in colour, but Findarato always thought the song was sung to speak of faint hopes in seeming losses, and he loved that song still – and Nausicaa too, who sang with him with the voice of a bird rather than her speaking voice, for that was in her power.

 

He finished with sore fingers; the harp-like contraption was very crude and it's strings were rough, but the making of its music and the memories the words gave him –

 

_… Mother walked him along the shore singing, and their daemons flew ahead together –_

 

… these things calmed his fear so that he no longer felt anxious of the reactions of the men before him.

 

And indeed, when Findarato looked down from the stars his eyes had wandered to, he found each and every one of them prostrate before him, kneeling in the dirt with heads bent, their daemons and their animals all docile and silent.

 

Not exactly what he had expected.

 

"Hmm…" he said. _Now what do I do?_ he asked Nausicaa.

 

_I don't know!_ she cried.

 

But, seeing that his song was finished, the man with the largest daemon looked up first, wide-eyed, and Findarato could do little more than smile at him in that moment, so he rose to his feet. One by one, the others followed suit. They hung back until the first man came forward – Findarato had guessed by now he was their leader.

 

He was of average height, though this was taller than most of his fellows, and had coarse, brown hair with a few glints of silver in the brown. Like many of the males of this people he had a beard, but this was not like the beards of the dwarves – long and lustrous as their hair – his was rough and grew not far past his skin, like moss upon a rock. His skin too was blemished; scarred across his left cheek, and lined around his dark eyes, but he seemed neither weak nor unhealthy for this and he walked to the front of his people carefully, but not hesitantly.

 

His daemon followed him; a dog of above knee-height whose head near brushed his hip. She had a long coat, black on top, then tan, with a white chest and underbelly.

 

There was a silence that became almost awkward, while both Findarato and this man waited for the other to say something first. At long last, it was the man who spoke, and he held his hand out towards Findarato and what he said was spoken as one seeking confirmation.

 

"Rodnr," he declared.

 

Findarato cocked his head.

 

The man gestured towards him and insisted, "Rodnr… ?" once more.

 

"I think he is saying 'Rodyn'," Nausicaa told her elf; Rodyn, which was the Sindar word for – "He thinks you are one of the Valar!"

 

"Huh?"

 

Findarato shook his head rapidly. "No, no, my friend – I am of the Eldar, an _ellon_."

 

He used the Sindar word since the man had used one that appeared to be corrupted from that language, and the man nodded and seemed much relieved, calling back " _Elpa,_ " over his shoulder at his people.

 

They all seemed much relieved after that; their weapons were put away almost unanimously. Only the boy with the slingshot kept hold of it, but he did not raise it.

 

Encouraged by this, Findarato took a step closer, and with his hand on his heart introduced himself properly to the group.

 

"Well met, my friends. My name is Findarato, son of Arafinwe, Lord of Nargothrond."

 

Of course, the men regarded him with openness, but without understanding a word of what he'd said. His smile became sheepish, and he chuckled nervously.

 

_Wonderful first impression you're making_ , Nausicaa commented.

 

_I don't see you doing any better,_ Findarato replied.

 

_Since when do daemons introduce themselves before elves?_ she asked. _Have you forgotten all your manners, or just the ones that apply to this situation?_

 

With no comeback at hand to that, Findarato decided instead to try again with the men, this time simply pointing to himself and saying slowly,

 

"Findarato."

 

The leader of the men nodded in understanding. "Findrada," he said.

 

"Fin-de-ra-to," Findarato said, more slowly.

 

"Findrada," repeated the man. He called to his people "Findrada tis," and it was clearly an introduction.

 

So Findarato shrugged and said, "Close enough," to which Nausicaa hummed in agreement.

 

Then the leader took another step towards him, both hands on a chest Findarato only now noticed to his amazement had _hair_ growing on it, and he said just as slowly –

 

"Bjahrlan."

 

The sound was strange. Findarato tried to repeat the name –

 

"Barlano."

 

And the man said again, louder and slower:

 

"Bja-ahr-lan."

 

Findarato tried once more –

 

"Balan."

 

And the man shrugged and said something Findarato guessed translated along the lines of 'close enough'.

 

_Now shall I make your introductions_ , he asked Nausicaa, _or do you feel that we are worthy to  hear your voice now?_

 

A little burst of indignity, the equivalent of a voiced huff, did Findarato feel through their bond, and he held out his arm suppressing a chuckle. Nausicaa hopped along the length of it until she was perched on his knuckle.

 

"Well met," she greeted the men. "I am Nausicaa, partner of Findarato."

 

She had not introduced herself by connection to her parents since they'd come to Beleriand, but they did not talk about that. Of far more interest there and then was how many of the men gasped and all looked astonished, some exchanging glances with their own daemons, some – and this disturbed Findarato a little – moving protectively in front of them.

 

Balan himself blinked several times before saying, amazed, "N-Nausicaa?"

 

It seemed he had little trouble pronouncing that.

 

_Of course_ , thought Nausicaa. _I am a daemon, and our names are different to yours._

 

Findarato did not understand this, but he had no time to think on it now – Balan spoke in his own language as he gestured towards his own daemon, and among those words was said, pointedly,

 

"Frigga."

 

And Findarato knew that was the daemon's name.

 

"Well met, Frigga," he said.

 

Again, the men were astounded, some shied away further, but Balan turned around and said again, "Elpa, _Elpa_!" as if to remind them, and they relaxed some. Then, with a hand on his daemon's head, he ushered her forth a little towards Findarato. She gave him a brief, nervous look, but walked a few steps and said, in a strange and heavily accented voice –

 

"Ye are welcome, Nausicaa."

 

Now it was Findarato's turn to be astonished.

 

_I understood her_! he told Nausicaa.

 

_That’s good_ , she told him. _I thought you might, once I understood what those other daemons were saying. We don't speak with tongues, after all, most of our forms could not make the sounds necessary. Our speech is different._

 

Once more, Findarato did not entirely understand, but further discussion would have to wait, because at that moment one of the females of this people, a 'woman', came running from the tents beyond to the fire calling –

 

"Bjahrlan! Bjahrlan!"

 

A very small deer ran after this woman, not much taller than Frigga, with small and stubby horns, and she came to a halt in the centre of the camp without seeming to notice the presence of Findarato at all. Her hair was grey on top and auburn beneath, her face was red, and she was stocky even beneath the heavy furs she wore and panted for breath from so short a run that Findarato was concerned – yet none of the men or women present seemed to be.

 

Balan only said questioningly, "Gruthari?" and began to direct her attention to Findarato only 'Gruthari' shook her head and said something in her tongue with great import. At this, Balan started, then looked to Findarato, then to the tents beyond.

 

Unable to be understood himself, Findarato had Nausicaa ask, "Is aught amiss?"

 

But before she could answer, they heard a scream coming from the largest of the tents.

 

"An attack?" Findarato asked, reaching for his sword.

 

Before he could draw it, Frigga spoke suddenly, saying, "Bjahrlan – the elf. Perhaps he has been sent this night for Olnoptidhri's sake?"

 

_Olnoptidhri…?_ wondered Findarato.

 

Whatever was meant by this, Balan seemed to like the idea, and he suddenly grabbed Findarato's wrist before he could take the blade more than half an inch out of the sheath and began pulling him in the direction of the tent.

 

Bewildered, Findarato could but go along with him, since he sensed no ill intent on Balan's part, and some of the group went with them but not many, and more women than men. No one else had drawn their weapons, nor had the small part of blade Findarato had seen of his own sword glowed in warning of orcs, so he was truly confused at what might have been the matter.

 

He heard crying though, as he approached, coming from within the tent, and another woman ducked out from its confines and grabbed a pail of water that had been set there before hurrying back inside. Then there was another scream, from a different woman – the same who had screamed before – and Findarato thought some poor member of their tribe might have been hurt.

 

But Nausicaa, who had taken to the air and flew above him, managed to guess: _I do not think that is what –_ before they reached the tent themselves and were lead inside.

 

There were six women already inside. Two knelt on the floor at the foot of a large pile of fleeces, chanting some prayer with hands clasped and heads bent. One was scrubbing at a bloodied cloth with the water she had just brought in from outside, to the side of the pile, and two were at the head. They attended the sixth woman – girl, really; Findarato could not imagine she had reached her majority yet – who was lain on the fleeces against many pillows with her dress hiked up about her waist and hugely expanded belly… Findarato averted his eyes quickly.

 

_Oh no…_ he thought.

 

At once the occupants of the room began to speak very quickly and with high emotions in their own language, and Findarato took the opportunity to take stock of the situation.

 

The girl upon the bed was about to give birth – that was plain even to him who had no experience of such things, and apparently the people of this tribe had thought that Findarato's appearing here on this night was a sign that he was meant to attend the birth? To be fair, Findarato could not have said that it wasn't, but still…

 

_Findarato,_ Nausicaa thought, with urgency. _There is something wrong._

 

And that was just as plain. The poor girl seemed afflicted terribly, red-faced and feverish, covered in sweat and tears from cries of agony – she screamed again while the others argued (probably over Findarato's presence) and Findarato searched for the cause of her pain. For he did not believe at first it was her child; he had been in Tirion on the day of Turukano's daughter's birth – not _in_ the birthing chamber of course but down the hall a ways with Nolofinwe and Turukano's siblings, and though Elenwe had certainly seemed tired when Itarille had appeared, he had heard no screaming.

 

Then Findarato wondered, where was the father of this child? Where was the girl's father? He assumed the woman closest to the girl, almost cheek to cheek and with her hand grasped tightly in her own, was the girl's mother – and from the way Balan was being scolded by the older woman holding the girl's other hand he assumed that was Balan's mother – but there were no other men present.

 

Perhaps it was not their custom to have any males present, he thought. But there was also something else.

 

By the oldest woman sat a medium-sized, fox-coloured dog daemon, who was beginning to growl softly at Findarato. The two women who had been praying, but were now both watching the argument wide-eyed, had respectively a large, long-coated rat of some kind and an insect Findarato had never seen before, vaguely leaf-like, both on their partner's laps. The mother of the girl had a daemon in the form of a small spotted cat, and the girl herself a songbird Findarato knew as a bluethroat.

 

But where was the child's daemon?

 

_Findarato!_ Nausicaa alerted him suddenly. _Look!_

 

She meant at the girl, and with her privates exposed Findarato was reluctant to, except that Nausicaa had sounded so insistent. He looked forthwith, and was amazed.

 

The girl was glowing.

 

And yet, he realised at once, not the girl – the _child_. The child, whose crown was just visible, was glowing, and brighter than any elf; with the light of the Two Trees in their face or otherwise. Brighter than the torches in crude stands that light the room, and with a glow Findarato recognised, for like the powder the skins of those children's daemons had shed into and like the dust of daemons that were slain, this was the goldenness that was the bond between daemon and partner.

 

Then the girl screamed again, broke off sobbing, and in horror of whatever pain she was suffering Findarato rushed to her side without thinking, crying softly –

 

"There, there! What is the pain that is troubling you so greatly, little Lady?"

 

She looked at him, at where his hand touched her arm beneath her mother's own, and her blue eyes filled with the light reflected from his face with shock that for a moment quieted her sobs. She had not noticed him before, he surmised, and could not blame her for it.

 

A moment later she remembered her agony again and wailed, but did not break eye-contact with Findarato. Her mother snapped something, but Balan cut her off, and one of the other women seemed to be coming to his defence as well. Balan addressed Frigga then, who edged closer to Findarato and he saw her look to him from the corner of his eye.

 

"Olnoptidhri is troubled by the babe," she said. The women in the tent went quiet – Findarato guessed by now that they did not expect daemons to speak to others like this. "The child is late. Can ye not help?"

 

"She is in such pain," muttered Nausicaa. "This cannot be normal."

 

"It is normal enough," said Frigga. If she was right, then it was a terrible burden for the females of this race, Findarato thought. Why Eru would –

 

The girl, Olnoptidhri, grit her teeth then and threw her head back, crying out. The old woman with the fox-dog quickly forced a leather bit between her teeth – quite roughly, to Findarato's mind. These were not a gentle people. And to such a strange people, Findarato feared there was little aid he could give. But, he thought, if he _could_ lend his strength to one so young and in such pain, he determined that he would, and he leaned closer and reached out to her face and cupped it. She was hot to touch, almost burning; she looked back to him with pinprick pupils, breathing heavily, and shocked once more from his presence.

 

His hand must have seemed cool to her. But it was more than that that shocked her.

 

"Come, come," he said. "We must be strong now, Ulodhri – " he knew he was mangling the pronunciation of her name, but more importantly – "and do all we can for this little one to see the sky, must we not?"

 

It was more difficult, he felt, to get the same sense of this girl through touch that he would one of his own people. His spirit reached out to her troubled heart, but at first was not recognised. However, Findarato was gentle, and the urge that most elves or dwarves had to trust him apparently extended also to this race, for in his heart he began to feel part of his strength absorbed by her – though she did not understand what was happening.

 

At the urging of the oldest woman she took a deep breath then, a calming breath, and then another. And one of the other women called her name and ordered something. So, holding on tighter to the hands of her kinswomen, Olnoptidhri bit down on the leather, and with new determination – as if she wanted to impress him, almost – she focused her efforts into whatever women did to birth their children.

 

Findarato smiled at her.

 

"Oh yes, you can do it," he said. "Eru Illuvatar has sent this child as a blessing. Let's try again now, Ulodhri, come on!"

 

As if his voice had some spell on her she seemed to know what he meant, and she exerted herself again – and at the foot of the fleeces Gruthari shouted again in encouragement and called to one of the younger women, who brought the water to her, with a cloth.

 

It was a long time then that Findarato knelt there, trying to do what he could for the young girl, and again and again she gathered up the force of her will and made her tries to see her child born. The hardship was great, to be sure, but she did not scream again once. At long last through the small line of sky between one tent-flap and another the light of dawn began to creep into the space, and, exhausted though she was, Olnoptidhri gave a final effort, and lay back.

 

Then stranger cries filled the air.

 

Gruthari exclaimed with joy and the other women followed suit; Findarato looked towards the other end of the fleece and saw to his amazement that she was holding in her arms the baby, still joined to its mother, and all over glowing like the sun.

 

_Findarato…_ Nausicaa whispered in his mind. _It's beautiful…_

 

Olnoptidhri began to laugh, but did not yet hold out her arms – Findarato soon saw why. As he stared in wonder the shining light around the child began to peel away from their skin, but it did not dissipate. It folded in on itself, dimming to glitter and rolling in, smaller and smaller, until it formed a shape upon the child's chest.

 

With one final flare of light the shape became defined – as that of a newly hatched chick to some small bird, and the light faded away.

 

It was the child's daemon.

 

_So that's where you got to, little one_ , thought Nausicaa.

 

Findarato found himself abruptly being hugged by Olnoptidhri's mother, as laughter filled the tent, and one of the younger women dashed out calling joyfully to those who must have been outside, someone patted Findarato's shoulder as though he were the father… and he thought again how odd and now how sad it was that he, whoever he might be, was not here.

 

So Nausicaa muttered to Frigga, "Will Olnoptidhri's husband not come see his child?"

 

But the dog shook her head, and said no more.

 

The child was then handed to their mother – _her_ mother, for Findarato saw now it was a girl – and the little chick daemon to his father, who stood on Olnoptidhri's shoulder and leant forward to touch his beak to the little one without touching the baby. This seemed strange to Findarato, but he too now felt quite weary, and did not question it. The baby was irritable, mewling – far redder than an infant of the Eldar would have been and the oldest of the women pulled the collar of Olnoptidhri's gown down and showed her how to nurse the child.

 

And Olnoptidhri grinned, and turned and said something to Findarato in her language that he did not understand, but from the sound of it, it was a thank you. Followed by a question.

 

Balan stepped forward, clapping Findarato on the shoulder. "Findrada," he said. "Elpa tis."

 

Olnoptidhri nodded, then giggled a little and looked back at her daughter. She said something that included Findarato's name (as interpreted by Balan), with her largest smile yet.

 

Whatever it was, it made Balan laugh. He put his arm around Findarato's shoulders fully and pointed at the baby, then said, "Findrada."

 

Findarato was still confused for a moment. Nausicaa cocked her head.

 

"Hmm," she said. "I think they just named that baby after you, dearest."

 

"Eh?"

 

He turned to Frigga in askance. She nodded solemnly.

 

"Well," he said faintly. "How about that?"

 

Balan laughed more.

 

*~*~*

 

 

The dawn had come and all about the camp the men and women attended to the tasks of the morning. Findarato sat upon a small hill on the eastern side of the camp and enjoyed watching their movements, tired as he was from the night before. They seemed a rougher people than the Eldar, but he thought that this was not a bad thing, for Morgoth too might scrape against their roughness, and though he knew very little of these people he did know in his heart that they knew of that darkness already.

 

Many of them caught sight of him and stared, but none approached that morning – some children seemed as though they might, but Findarato saw their mothers and fathers forbidding them; a sight he needed not know the language to understand. Yet he did not think fear informed this, so much as reverence – for many too would bow to him when they saw him, despite his protestations.

 

He had been shocked though, to learn that Olnoptidhri had seen only sixteen summers before tonight. He had surmised she'd not reached majority, but had thought her at least forty. But it turned out the majority of men was twenty summers, and it was Balan who was forty, so he said – or thereabouts, and Findarato thought that for one so young to be the leader of these people Balan must have been a special man indeed.

 

Balan had only laughed again, when through Frigga he was made to understand this.

 

"We will understand them better in time," Nausicaa suggested.

 

"Their daemons too," agreed Findarato. "We did not get a chance to ask, and yet it must be normal for them to change shape like that in their childhood. I could not say why such a thing should be though."

 

Little Findrada's daemon, who they called Vali, had become a little lizard, a kitten and a second type of chick already.

 

The Lord of Nargothrond lay back against the grass. The sky was blue as forget-me-nots and patched with white cloud – the day looked to be fine indeed. Nausicaa hopped onto his chest.

 

"The forms we take are chosen by Eru Illuvatar as a window into the characters of our partners," she said. "For I am you, and you are me, and in both of us there is something of a budgerigar."

 

Findarato grinned. "As Turukano always said, they were the friendliest of birds in Aman." Then he sighed. "I wish they lived in these parts as well."

 

"Don't start randomly talking about other things," Nausicaa said – and had she not been a bird she would have rolled her eyes, he was sure. "What I mean to say is that I held this shape even before you were born, for your soul was doomed that way."

 

"Doomed…" Findarato repeated, and frowned. "And them? These men and women, and their children?"

 

For a long time there was silence, but for the camp below and the noises of the true birds nearby. Then…

 

"I think it means their destinies have not yet been decided," Nausicaa said.

 

Findarato raised his eyebrows. He did not understand what that meant, not in his mind, but thought perhaps he did in his heart, and for then and there he was contented – with that, and to simply be in the company of this strange new people.

 

 

*~*~*

 

Daemons (of canon characters) introduced in this chapter include those of:

 

Balan (Beor):      Frigga, a Bernese mountain dog

Olwe:                Cassandra, whose form is not mentioned (but she'll show up later)

 

And from previous parts:

 

Finrod:              Nausicaa, a budgerigar

 

 

*~*~*

 

 


	2. Dinemellia dinemelli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title this time refers to the form Haleth's daemon takes. An accurate summary of the chapter runs thus:
> 
> Haleth: You know nothing, Jon Snow - I mean, Caranthir.  
> Caranthir: Yeah, well, you're dumb.  
> Haleth: I think you'll find it is YOU who is dumb!  
> Caranthir: Your face is dumb!  
> Haleth: Your Oath to Reclaim the Silmarils is dumb!  
> Caranthir: Raarrgh!  
> Caranthir's daemon: ... this is dumb.  
> Haleth's daemon: .........
> 
> May you all enjoy it muchly.

 

*~*~*

 

_"… the forms of the_ kelvar _Yavanna wrought upon the world are marvellous, and myriad, but the Children of Iluvatar outnumber these forms. Thus it is not held as strange that the daemon of one may be of the same form as the daemon of another. The elves call this a case of 'daemon-twins'._

_Yet it is not the case that the twinned daemons may be the same in character as each other, nor that their elves or men may be alike to each other except in one aspect, or even in none. For a daemon reflects an aspect of a person's character, to be true, but only Eru Illuvatar knows for sure which one."_

 

*~*~*

 

 

The horses rode at a gallop over the plains and above them Urania glided on a wind that carried her towards their prey, and many other bird daemons behind her.

 

Carnistir rode with a company of sixteen for this hunt – neither a hunt of sport nor for sustenance, for there had been wolves harassing the flocks on the southern parts of his lands, and Carnistir and Urania both had much rather have been hunting them than listening to whatever griping the latest messengers sent from Angarato and Aicanaro had had to say. They sent them semi-frequently, usually trying to renegotiate the way they obtained metalwork from the dwarves through him, and he gave them the same answer every time he was there to give it. Which was semi-frequently.

 

Their quarry drove them southwest towards the descending sun, and Carnistir was forced to shield his eyes against it for a moment. The moment was all the wolf needed to disappear.

 

He hissed with annoyance. "Did you see where she went!?" he called up to Urania.

 

The wind died down and she descended. _Along the brush there at the edge of the hill, I think._

 

"Does she hide there, or is she moving?"

 

_I cannot tell. Ask the falcon._

 

With a click of his tongue, Carnistir turned his horse around to the others, picking out the elf who had the one falcon in their group.

 

"Urania said she went into the brush, does your daemon see her?"

 

The elf squirmed under Carnistir's dark look. "Lord," he said. "The horses are tired – she is the last of the pack, surely she will move on now to find new companions – "

 

"I do not leave any task half done!" snapped Carnistir. "Does she see her or not?"

 

With some hesitation, the elf nodded. "She is still is the brush, trying to remain unseen."

 

"Then we will flush her out," said Carnistir. "Come on!"

 

Turning his horse back towards the hill, and the scraggly line of trees and bushes cut off from the larger woodland ahead. If they didn't catch up to that blasted thieving bitch before she made it to that wood, Carnistir was not going to be happy.

 

"I'll circle around towards the treeline with you four!" he called to a section of the party. "The rest of you beat around the bushes until she breaks free!"

 

He and the four he'd chosen broke off from the main part of the group, who slowed to give them time to get between the wood and the smaller grove ahead before they made their attempt to drive out the last of the wolves. Carnistir's horse was tired, this was true, but not so tired that seeing this hunt through to the end would cause it damage, and he scoffed inwardly at the elf who had questioned him.

 

Carnistir did not allow wolves in his territory. And he did not forgive those who ignored this decree.

 

As the sun passed behind a cloud he brought his mount around before the threshold of the trees and in the middle of the five that made up his group. The hounds followed the rest to the bushes their prey had tried to conceal herself in, snapping and snarling at her from several directions. Carnistir kept a close eye peeled on the brush for any flash of movement from her.

 

The moments drew on. The rest of the party half-encircled the patch of trees along with their hunting dogs and began calling and whistling, beating the branches of the bushes with long, heavy sticks to drive her terror to its limits. Carnistir peered hard.

 

Any moment now, he thought. Any moment…

 

The bird daemons circled above, waiting for the opportunity to assist their elves however they could. Urania's golden eyes joined his in watching – he heard an echo of her asking the falcon daemon if she saw aught of the wolf now, and something of what her reply was, though his focus was on what his eyes were telling him and not his ears.

 

And then…

 

_There!_ Urania cried.

 

The wolf broke out on their left and made her dash for the trees, running at a curve to try and confuse her pursuers that Carnistir judged would bring her directly in between himself and the rider on his left. He had his bow at the ready, arrow knocked, drawn, only a second or two together before she evaded him –

 

Then through Urania's eyes he saw a familiar flash of orange in the branches behind him; heard her baffled cry of _Hecuba!?_

 

"What?"

 

Immediately his attention switched focus, he relaxed his grip on the arrow and turned to the trees: Urania was right – that was _Hecuba_ , Turukano's daemon, in the tree behind him, what in the name of the Valar –

 

The wolf darted right past his horse, and he reared and Carnistir had to grab at the reins to stay on, as he yanked the beast around to face the trees. But there wasn't even the half-moment it should have taken for his anger to swell given before events took a turn for the truly absurd.

 

At that moment, a young stag came belting out of the forest like the balrogs of Morgoth were on his tail, antlers crashing into the lower-hanging leaves in his path.

 

He galloped straight into the path of the wolf, and a collision was inevitable. The stag's hooves caught her between them, the stag tripped; fell near head-over-heels onto the grass, antler striking the ground roughly, something snapping. The wolf fared no better, kicked on the side of her mouth and then again in her hip by strong hooves; she twisted in the air, fell, and struck the ground hard – skidding several feet and flipping over as she came to a halt, stunned.

 

Carnistir raised his bow again but was distracted, now by a figure running towards him from the forest. An arrow flew and struck the stag as it tried to stagger upright, knocking it down again amongst two other arrows already in its flank. Poorly made arrows, Carnistir could tell even at half a glance, but they seemed to be doing their intended job.

 

"Turukano?" he wondered aloud.

 

Foolishly so; the figure that approached was female, and more than that wasn't even an elf at all, but a woman, with a bent nose and a mantle patched with other fabrics. Turukano had vanished along with a good part of Nolofinwe's people years ago to do whatever it was pretentious cowards did, and good riddance to him.

 

_And yet, the bird whose form Hecuba takes does not live in these parts_ , remarked Urania.

 

_Quiet!_ he remonstrated, and turned his bow back to the dazed and stumbling wolf, only for another unevenly-shafted arrow with bitten fletching to fall down into its eye before he could line up his shot.

 

"A-ha!" cried the woman. "Good shot, nephew!"

 

A boy followed her out from the trees, his grey eyes staring wide at Carnistir and with his hair shorn on either side of his head in a most barbarous fashion. The woman – his aunt, apparently, raced on ahead, pulling a club from her belt and without any greeting whatsoever bashed it hard against the whining wolf's skull three times in a row, ending its misery.

 

Behind Carnistir the hunting dogs began to snarl at this strange pair, but the elves held them back, and Carnistir, wanting some explanation but not wanting these people to be savaged by his dogs, held up his hand to let the party know to keep things that way.

 

At long last, the woman actually seemed to notice him. Her eyes were grey as the boy's, and her hair was dark brown and wavy. Carnistir wrinkled his nose seeing the red spots on her skin. After a moment staring at him, she threw her arm out as if to cast him away.

 

"No, no!" she yelled. This was one of few words Carnistir knew of her language. "Go away, all of you! These two are ours!" Carnistir did not understand those words.

 

But he understood their meaning.

 

"Excuse me?" he said softly, in Sindarin.

 

To his relief, the woman switched to this language also, though she spoke it poorly.

 

"These two," she shouted again, louder. "Our kill. Not yours. Go away."

 

She waved her hand out in a shooing motion a few more times as she hurried to the deer. It was still alive and raised its head to try and pierce her with its antlers, but she grabbed hold of them firmly, and the boy ran forward and slit its throat with a bronze knife. His daemon – a scrappy little dog – came hurrying after him, skirting around Carnistir nervously.

 

Carnistir, meanwhile, was not amused.

 

"Excuse me?" he growled. "Woman, my people and I have been hunting that bitch for two days now, and many leagues. If you think we are going to let you take it because that child got a lucky shot it after we did all the hard work then you are sorely mistaken."

 

"You want to fight for it!?" snapped the woman. "I'll fight you, boy – your bitch was my kill and that makes her my wolf, and if you take issue with that you may tell it to this club of mine!"

 

She held up the bloody chunk of wood and Carnistir's blood seethed.

 

_Boy?_ he thought. _How dare she…_

 

"Lady," one of his elves stepped in hastily, with a nervous voice, "we outnumber you by some measure, though your club is mighty. I advise you be satisfied with your deer and leave our Lord his quarry in peace."

 

"Lord?" repeated the woman.

 

Before she could say aught else, Carnistir rounded on the other elf, snarling, "Oh, she may be satisfied with her deer, may she? That's funny, Belenduil, I don't remember offering the deer in my forests up for all and sundry who would have them!"

 

"Your forest?" said the woman, with disbelief. "What claim do you have over these trees? I've lived here many a year and never seen _you_ beneath their branches before."

 

"I am Carnistir Curufinweion and my lands are many and vast," Carnistir told her with annoyance, "while your people are short-lived and beneath my notice, or I would come and drive the lot of you from my lands entirely."

 

The woman's eyes grew angrier, and the boy's, and his little daemon growled. His aunt held Carnistir's gaze for a long moment before her eyes flitted to the trees behind her, and the orange-rumped bird easily spotted thereon. It shared a branch with Urania, who was the larger bird, and hunching herself to look larger still, but in an instant flew to the woman's shoulder – for as Carnistir had guessed by now he was the woman's daemon, not Turukano's.

 

"Well, if these are your lands, where is your house?" she demanded. "I am no fool to take for granted the words of any upstart that comes riding through the plains looking to steal my food, and I have never even heard of Caranthir Curufinion." (Carnistir bristled at the mispronunciation of his and his father's names) "The wolf I'm willing to share, since you chased it all this way, but the deer is mine – it is needed to feed my family."

 

Urania glided on a wind from the tree to Carnistir, brushing close enough to the woman to make her flinch while Carnistir glared furiously.

 

_Temper, temper_ , Urania reminded him. _You know how Cousin Nausicaa and her elf have a fondness for these things._

 

_I forget us having any particular fondness of our own for 'cousin Nausicaa' and her idiot_ , Carnistir replied.

 

_For them_ , maybe, thought Urania, _for the traffic the Lord of Nargothrond brings through our halls…_

 

Carnistir calmed his temper with that reminder, and would not have struck the woman down merely for annoying him anyway, but it was not in his nature to give much either.

 

"Wrong, woman," he said. "The deer is mine, and by my grace alone may you take it back to feed your family. Who are your family anyway, what people do you belong to?"

 

"My father is Haldad," said the woman. "That is my people."

 

"And what is your name?"

 

"I am Haleth, daughter of Haldad."

 

Carnistir waited for an introduction of the daemon too, but none was forthcoming, and he seemed to recall hearing that the Edain were ridiculously formal when it came to their daemons, and guarded their interactions more jealously than gold. But to Carnistir this seemed a foolish thing, so he persisted.

 

"Well, Haleth, daughter of Haldad, you should know that the only reason that wolf escaped me long enough to enter your boy's sights was my distraction with your daemon there. He is a twin to my cousin's, who has been missing for many years."

 

This was said more for the benefit of his own party, he told himself, but the strange woman peered harder at Carnistir with eyes already lightly lined.

 

"You're very stupid, aren't you?" she said at length.

 

Carnistir was taken aback, and spluttered, "Excuse me!?"

 

"I've said already I know you not," she said – more pointedly now, as though speaking to someone who was slow. "And my daemon's twin is a ferret, the partner of my own twin brother. We know not your cousin."

 

"It's an expression, you fool, obviously I am not related to you – we are not even of the same race." Carnistir told her. "One of my cousins' daemons takes the same form that yours does. It is called a weaver-bird."

 

" _He_ is called Loki, boy, though I'll thank you to keep that to yourself."

 

Teeth grit at being called a 'boy' again, Carnistir clenched his fist around his bow to try and temper his anger. "No, the form he takes – he takes the form of a weaver bird. They weave their nests from grass and sticks, that's how they get their name."

 

"It is you who are the fool, Caranthir," Haleth replied. "Though I suppose since you are a man you have no knowledge of weaving – "

 

" – I am not a 'man' and my name isn't – "

 

" – as it is woman's work. But I will tell you this much: to weave you need a loom, and to use a loom you needs must use your hands, so unless these birds lie on their backs and weave with their claws they cannot possibly weave their nests."

 

"They don't _literally_ weave the grass – "

 

"Then why call them 'weaver birds'?"

 

_Moryo_ , _there is no point in talking to this creature_ , Urania told him privately. _Send her off with her deer and a warning and be done with her – the wolf we will take back to our halls so that its pelt may join those of its companions._

 

Carnistir thought this was probably a good idea, but was too irate at the continued disrespect he and his people were being shown to speak of it. As the pause drew on and Haleth backed over to the stag to recover what she could of her shoddy arrows, some of the other elves began to get nervous, and Belenduil approached him slowly, saying,

 

"My Lord, she is but one of the Engwar – " Haleth snorted, clearly understanding the term for 'sickly ones', "why waste our time with her?"

 

"I'll have you know I've never been sick a day in my life!" said Haleth, and was ignored.

 

By all but the boy, who whispered – "but what about that time you ate the bad mushrooms – "

 

"Hush!" snapped Haleth. "That doesn't count!"

 

Her daemon gave her a look and she glared at it, but Carnistir was now resolved and drew his horse closer to her a few steps before bringing it to bear before her. The boy at first began to back away from his approach, but seeing that Haleth only stood where she was he came forward to her side again, making an attempt at a fighting stance. Haleth looked straight into Carnistir's eyes, squinting against the sun, but never blinking.

 

Carnistir reached out with his bow; he did not touch her with it, but extended it past her ear on the side her daemon was not, for he would not have interfered with any daemon but he meant to show her he was not to be trifled with.

 

"You, woman, are trying my patience," he said. "Take the stag and be gone from my sight, or I'll release my dogs on you and your nephew."

 

She reached up and pushed his bow away from her head.

 

"Since it appears I have no choice in the matter," she agreed. "But allow us to take the wolf's teeth – they will bring strength and good luck to my nephew if I make an amulet of them."

 

More and more Carnistir was becoming frustrated with having to humour such a primitive creature with his attentions, and he growled.

 

"No it won't. It will bring him the look of a fool who wears teeth, you idiot."

 

"You scoff," retorted Haleth, "but what do you know? Riding about, calling yourself the Lord of everywhere; you look not like any other elf whose lands we've passed so who's to say you're no bad spirit, come to trick us?" She glared. "Haleth, daughter of Haldad, shall be no ghost's fool."

 

Carnistir almost snapped his bow. "No, _you_ need no ghost or fell spirit to be one of those. I am of the Noldor, those who came across the sea to fight the evil of the great enemy, Moringotto in our tongue, and that is why you have seen no elves of my like – for I see no reason why I or my fellow lords should bother with you."

 

"Nonsense!" Haleth declared confidently. "If you were one of the elves from across the sea, you could have flown down from above to kill that wolf, and not had the need for horse or dogs."

 

_… what?..._

 

"What?" Carnistir asked flatly.

 

"Hah!" said Haleth. "As if I didn't know Wester-elves can fly. It is you who shows yourself for a fool, Caranthir."

 

Fly? What in the name of Elbereth had Findarato been telling these people… ?

 

But finally Urania herself had had enough and hissed, and flew forth to the head of Carnistir's horse – who flinched, but did not dare to try and shrug her off – spitting:

 

"You have tried our patience, woman. One of the teeth has come loose there from your doing; you may take that one and get out of our sight before we lose our temper!"

 

Haleth finally seemed affected, but by the looks of it more from the fact that Urania spoke to her at all than from her threats. The boy's growling dog daemon shifted, as Carnistir had heard the daemons of the children of Men would do, shedding the skin of a dog in exchange for one of a bear, and bigger now than its partner it growled at them.

 

This made the elves wary, and Carnistir alone did not show it but for a slight widening of his eyes. The bear the daemon had become was bigger than the child, shaggy and brown, but not a full-grown bear; smaller to be sure than the biggest daemon Carnistir had ever seen. And of course, she would not have been able to touch their flying daemons.

 

And Haleth hissed, "Haldan, mind Lunelle!"

 

The boy turned with an imploring look to his daemon, and she shed her bear skin – but for that of a wolf-like thing and not the dog she had been before. Haleth walked backwards to the dead wolf, keeping her eyes on Urania like she feared her more than Carnistir – and perhaps she did, for who was Carnistir to know what other ridiculous superstitions were held by men – then dropped to its side. She did not speak as she removed the tooth; looked at it only long enough to see what she was doing before she returned her attention to Urania.

 

Then at length she stood, and her eyes met Carnistir's instead.

 

"Elf," she said in acknowledgement, nodding slightly. "We will take our leave of you."

 

"It will be one thing you've taken from me that I would readily give you, woman," said Carnistir.

 

Haleth rolled her eyes at him, which robbed him of any satisfaction from that comeback. Then she put a hand on the boy's shoulder and guided him back towards the treeline, but bent to speak before she was out of an elf's earshot, and Carnistir was not free of her annoyance yet.

 

"See?" he heard her whisper to the boy. "The fool didn't know we only needed one tooth anyway to make the amulet. Now we have all we need, yet he thinks _he's_ the victor!"

 

"Wow, Aunt Haleth – you're really wise!"

 

Carnistir's noise of frustration was audible.

 

_Just let it go,_ Urania told him. _Soon they will be gone, and you will never have to speak to the witless wench again._

 

_You're right,_ Carnistir allowed, taking a deep breath. _I just have to not to shoot her in the face in the next minute or so, and then we will be rid of her and her brat._

 

But before Haleth disappeared into the trees she turned back, saying –

 

"Tell me, Caranthir – "

 

" _Carnistir_!"

 

She waved her hand. " – what does your cousin look like, who went missing? If I see him I will send word to you somehow."

 

This was not what he had expected to hear, and for a fraction of a moment he and Urania were taken aback, and her eyes flickered over to the woman's daemon, Loki, who had more orange on his wings now they were looking harder than Hecuba had had, but otherwise was her spitting image. And any irritation Carnistir felt was, this time, not for Haleth.

 

He laughed.

 

"Oh, you needn't bother being on the lookout for him," he assured her. "That coward shuns the war of vengeance started on the Enemy by my father; has found a hole safer than here, no doubt, where he and his friends dance around congratulating themselves on how wonderful they are."

 

Haleth's eyebrows rose, and she became strangely thoughtful. "Coward, you call him? Yet if I knew of a place safe from orcs and goblins and wolves where my family and those who live nearby might dwell in peace and prosperity, I think I would suffer to be called a coward if such was the only price for living there."

 

"You are hardly an elven prince though, are you? Our grandfather – the king of all our people – was slain by that foul creature, and we came to these lands to deliver righteous vengeance for that, and for my brothers and I to reclaim what was stolen from us – and damned be any who stand in our way." He pointed his bow at the boy; for emphasis, but it never hurt to remind people of the Oath. "Those of our people who remember their King would fight to the last drop of their blood to see him avenged. So we have sworn."

 

"So we have sworn," said Urania.

 

"So we have sworn," echoed all his party, and their daemons.

 

He lowered his bow. "But I say not that you have any part in it. My cousin, however, is a coward."

 

There was a long pause then, and Haleth's eyes narrowed slowly. She spoke only at length after.

 

"Hmph," she said. "You _are_ a fool, boy. But I think that you will learn, unfortunately. Hopefully not too late."

 

And with that she left, and Carnistir was speechless with frustration with her.

 

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

 

It was said that one daemon's form might reflect any number of different things about their partner, so one could not expect two whose daemons were of the same form to be alike themselves. This, Carnistir thought, was true – for the only thing Haleth and Turukano had in common was that they were both extremely annoying.

 

"They have broken through the barricade!" Urania called out, her view of the carnage better than her elf's, yet he too had been able to see just that, at least.

 

Yet it was only through her eyes he saw that the faces of those trying to reinforce the barricade, seven of them, one man in his prime, three with grey beards, and three women. From small gaps in the logs that had been hastily piled together to form the fortification, arrows were fired now and then, but mostly they came from over the top where a brave woman or boy would jump up and try to fire an arrow off before an orc shot them down. Fortunately for them, there were enough orcs about that they needn't have taken the extra time to line their shots up.

 

Even so, a woman was thrown back from the wall with a scream in only the few moments Carnistir took to observe the situation. The orcs' archers could afford to focus on specific spots on the wall and wait for one of their enemies to come into view. Those of their daemons who could take to wing would have been keeping them appraised of the men's movements.

 

But Carnistir also saw birds in that air, and on one a flash of bright orange. And he recognised Haleth's face as one of the three women trying to reinforce the barricade. This gave him something approaching 'cheer', for the orcs had also been carrying the heads of some of the men on pikes, and Carnistir had thought for a moment he had seen her face in one of those heads.

 

Somehow, the thought that it had been that irritating woman's head, that had also irritated him.

 

"Sound the trumpets," he ordered. Urania clapped eyes on some grotesque bat thing that tried to capture Loki, and she flew for it.

 

The battle that followed was short, but bloody.

 

Carnistir's people outnumbered the orcs, and orcs were not the match of elves in battle, but they had arrived at sunset as the orcs were on the verge of victory, and that had peaked the bloodthirst of their foes. It also happened that, while the daemons of orcs retained enough of a daemon's nature to shy from attacking others, orcs had no compunctions about targeting the daemons of elves or men. Furthermore these twisted creatures held none of the nuance contained in Eru Illuvatar's music; the greater the orc, the bigger and nastier their daemon.

 

So it was Carnistir might find himself a match among their number for his skill – or as close as they could produce – with heavy armour and an axe that could cleave an elf in two with a single stroke, yet Urania would not take on the creature's daemon, for it might be as large as a lion, and Carnistir found two such orcs in the melee.

 

The second even knocked him off his horse at one point, but lost its advantage when the daemon of one of the men – a sandy-coloured wolf-like thing – jumped upon its own hairless, black wolf daemon and bit its neck until its partner turned back. Carnistir regained his bearings and avoided the next swing of the foul orc's weapon, leaping up upon its back and stabbing it in the throat.

 

And he caught sight of Haleth too, in the fray, rallying the survivors of her people to take up position on the wall and continue to fire what arrows they had left on the backs of the orcs who had turned to face the greater threat – even when she could have stayed within and waited for Carnistir to take care of it.

 

Some of the children of the men even dashed out to collect more arrows at her bidding, at which Carnistir was astonished, for no elven lady he knew would have bade their children do such a thing.

 

Well. Perhaps Irisse.

 

But it was Haleth herself who astonished him the most, for she took what men remained and a few other women, and instead of destroying the makeshift bridges the orcs had used to get across the river, she led her party across them and set to attacking at weak points that Loki must have pointed out to her from above. Several times an orc fired upon the weaver from below, but always he darted out of reach, but for the one time Urania had to snatch the offending arrow out of the sky before it pierced him.

 

Haleth was fierce and warlike in battle, even more than on the hunt, and Carnistir now saw the wolf he had seen her club to death a few seasons earlier had gotten off lightly. She took no shield with her, only a wicked mace picked up from a fallen enemy, but the helms of the orcs were no match for this.

 

_Perhaps we misjudged her_ , Carnistir wondered.

 

_Nay,_ thought Urania _. She is a savage, and a barbarian, and no doubt a fool too – but perhaps she is also a mighty warrior. If_ this _was turned upon the other orcs who harass our borders… ?_

 

Carnistir followed her line of thought.

 

As the stars began to gather in the skies the last of the orcs were routed and slain, and the battle was won. Many of the men and women flocked around the elves and knelt before them in worship, which Carnistir saw made his people uncomfortable, but he did not care particularly. Haleth was, unsurprisingly, not among their number.

 

_I lost track of her some minutes ago,_ he told Urania. _She didn't fall in the river or anything, did she?_

 

_She is searching among the fallen orcs_ , said Urania.

 

Looking out that way, and perhaps knowing in his heart, towards where he had seen the brandished severed head he'd thought for a moment might have been hers, Carnistir climbed over the carcasses of orcs and through the dust of their daemons to reach her side.

 

The sky was violet. There was a growl as he approached the bloodstained, hunched woman – a growl from a daemon. A sandy-coloured wolf-like thing. He saw Haleth's nephew at her side but spared him no more than a glance; although he was not without gladness that the boy had survived. Such a short life should at least not have ended before its time, he thought.

 

Haleth was looking, but her hand was on her heart in pain. Carnistir recognised the signs of one who had stretched their bond with their daemon too far and for too long. What choice would she have had, though? He had seen few other bird daemons among the others, and could not have been certain any of them belonged to adults and were settled. Loki would have been needed to scout as far as he could, for bird daemons could travel further from their partners than could land-beasts.

 

_That boy's daemon has settled_ , Urania told him. He didn't ask how she knew, since he cared but little. Once he was standing over Haleth's shoulder, he stopped.

 

"Was this the twin you spoke of?" he asked.

 

She was knelt beside a fallen pike, and despite her wound she yanked the head off of it without flinching. Neither Amburussa, thought Carnistir – impressed and with a stinging feeling like sympathy in his heart, could have done such a thing in her place.

 

"Not that I wouldn't have rather his head remained upon his neck," Haleth replied, her voice hoarse, "but it does seem these pikes don't work so well when you put a head on as a tip. Heads are not so sharp, and certainly not Haldar's."

 

She paused.

 

"He would have thought that was funny."

 

"Sorry I don't have the sophisticated sense of humour that your brother did," said Carnistir. Urania nudged him and he rolled his eyes. "But you have my condolences for his loss."

 

"And you have my thanks," said Haleth. "For coming to our aid. Or we would have all been heads on pikes."

 

Staggering over a ways she placed the head down next to another, which she had also taken off the pike it had been spit upon. This had been the head of an older man, grey-haired.

 

"This was my father," she told him. "A brave man."

 

"No doubt," said Carnistir.

 

Loki was on his woman's shoulder, made a noise in a bird's voice and looked at Haleth in a way which Carnistir guessed meant they spoke mind to mind. Then some tension in Haleth's shoulders relaxed, and she deflated some, kneeling before the mutilated parts of her kin.

 

Standing back, the boy said nothing. He seemed to have appointed himself his aunt's guard, of a sort, stood with his back turned and did not say aught about the head Carnistir assumed was his father's, and grandfather's. But his shoulders shook a little, every few moments.

 

Carnistir then turned back and saw Haleth looking up at the stars.

 

"The footprints of Elbereth Githoniel," he muttered.

 

Haleth snorted. "Rubbish," she said. "They are the tears of Tjartthi."

 

"Tiathi?" Carnistir repeated, or tried to.

 

"The first man," said Haleth. "Our people were created after yours, and so the gods decided to make Men stronger, faster, and more fierce to contend with the threat of the dark one. But they erred, and their creations were too proud of their strength. In our ancestral lands your eastern kin were oppressed in ancient times by our forefathers, for the first men stole the wives of elves as their concubines, and the first women took the children of elves as their slaves, and the elves could not contend against them."

 

Sad, she sounded at this, and Carnistir wished to tell her not to be, for the idea was totally ridiculous, yet for a time he stayed his tongue.

 

"And seeing what they had done, the gods repudiated the race of men – but Tjartthi lead them against the gods, and one by one he slew them all."

 

_Nonsense_ , thought Carnistir.

 

"But the power of men came from the gods they killed," said Haleth, "and when they were slain the gods left their spirits to the elves, so that they would not lose their gifts, but men lost their power – and became weak and slow and cursed with sickness – and with death, which we did not know before."

 

She looked up again.

 

"And Tjartthi wept, for stained with so much of the gods' blood a part of them was absorbed into him alone, and he alone retained their power, and will neither age nor die until the end of time, even should a thousand swords pierce his heart."

 

"That is only a story," Carnistir told her. "The stars were there before your people came. And the 'gods', as you call them, are not dead. They do not even dwell in the east."

 

"Well, why not?" asked Haleth, "Is this not where their foe is? Would they not fight them if they still dwelt within the world?"

 

"That's…" _a good question_ , Carnistir thought. He remembered the dark figure pronouncing their Doom upon the shore of Aman.

 

Haleth did not wait for an answer. "No," she said. "I would believe the tales of my father before yours, boy, even if you did come to our aid." She stood. "For which I _am_ grateful."

 

"If you are grateful and would do more to avenge your father and brother then come with me," said Carnistir – suddenly even as he saw it, not thinking about what he was saying before the words had left his mouth, surprising even himself. "I will set you and your people up in better lands than these where you will be protected by my warriors, and join them – and fight with them against Moringotto, and for the reclamation of the Silmarils, for there will be no peace upon these lands until he is slain. If your people really can slay gods then we might have need of you."

 

But Haleth was silent a while, and looked off into the west.

 

 "What are these Silmarils of which you speak?" she asked.

 

Carnistir took a deep breath. How to describe such a thing to such a… person? The sudden thought of them, their light, their beauty, brought tears to his eyes so quickly and without warning that he turned away, cursing the weakness of his eyes.

 

But Urania said –

 

"They are the greatest works of my mother's elf's hands, and both they and my grandmother-and-father were slain for them by the dark one. The hold within them all that is left of the light of the Two Trees, which were to us as the sun and moon are to you, for they were their forerunners. My brothers and I swore an Oath that cannot be forsworn lest we be damned to eternal darkness, that we would retrieve the Silmarils or die trying, and take anyone who stood in our way along with us."

 

Now Haleth was silent longer. She spoke only at length.

 

"As ever, you are a fool, Caranthir."

 

Now Carnistir remembered why this woman had annoyed him so much when last they'd met. "As ever, _you_ cannot even remember my name properly – "

 

She ignored him. "Such an oath sounded impressive at the time, I'm sure, but what purpose does it serve when we _have_ the sun and moon now?" she gestured up at the sky. "You and your fool brothers should just own up to it. Instead of jewel-hunting, work hard upon the lands that you are supposedly the lords of – and I think you will find that the rewards from your hard work might just outstrip the benefits of pretty jewels. Among my people, even the young girls are not as taken with trinkets as you. A full grown man ought to think more of his pride."

 

Carnistir stared. He didn't even know where to start.

 

"Woman," he growled, "I am not a 'man' by any means, and I will forgive you your disrespect of the Silmarils as you have never seen them, and obviously have not the mental capacity to imagine them – "

 

Haleth laughed, indignantly.

 

" – but how do you suppose my brothers and I ignore an oath we swore to _damn us to eternal darkness_ if it were forsworn!?"

 

"Well, if you could do that why not just say – 'Morgoth, I damn thee to eternal darkness', and your problem with him will be solved?"

 

"I cannot consign Morgoth to the Void just by saying the words!" Carnistir exploded.

 

"Then _why_ are you so worried about your silly Oath?" asked Loki, boredly. "You see, we do not call you a fool for nothing."

 

Carnistir gave up. There was no reasoning with this ridiculous pair.

 

He and his people stayed to help the men bury their dead, and gave them supplies as they required to see them on their way thereafter – and some entered Caranthir's service, and many did not. It only occurred to him later that that was the first and only time he ever heard Loki speak.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

 

"Lady Haleth is no more. The Hunter struck her down."

 

Carnistir stared at the men who brought him this news, and the white fox and rodent of unusual size that accompanied them as their daemons. They knelt before him, and one presented a hoe as though as a gift, with no explanation as of yet

 

Men did not live long, he had known, and often the thought – _I wonder if she's dead yet_ – had entered his mind over the years. More often and with more of a twisting feeling than he would have ever admitted. But now he thought of old stories of Orome, and found himself perplexed as well as…

 

As well as…

 

"The Hunter?" Urania interrogated.

 

The men were surprised, but recovered quicker than their forefathers might have.

 

"Aye," said the elder of them. "The invisible hunter that takes our people when it is time, for he is the ghost of the god of the Hunt, and the retrieval of the dead for judgement is his domain. We saw him not, but the lady died suddenly, and grasped her chest, as though an arrow had struck her – and this is how His arrows fly."

 

Well, that sounded much like one of the usual idiotic stories of Haleth and her people –

 

"His daemon too takes the daemons of men and women," added the younger man. "Her name is Jyrna, and she is an eagle greater than any who have walked the earth. She snatches them right out of their skin, and it falls to powder."

 

"No man has seen the Hunter," said the first man. "But I have heard of some who have seen his daemon. Where it goes men fear to tread, for its presence means death is near."

 

Carnistir rubbed his brow, and might have called them fools and explained the existence of the eagles of Manwe if he could have been bothered, but the news of Haleth's death had struck him somehow, and he waved his hand.

 

"That is ridiculous, but never mind. What is this you bring before me?"

 

"Lady Haleth willed that you should have it when her time came," said the elder man. Carnistir had one of his servants take it from the man and bring it to him. "She bade that you remember her words – seek treasure in the fruit of the earth, and not in pretty stones."

 

Carnistir was taking the hoe up just as the man said that and felt like he could have crushed it in his fist he was so suddenly angry.

 

"… woman…!" he growled.

 

But she was not there for him to yell at, and never would be.

 

"Lady Haleth made that herself," said the younger of the men. Carnistir did not disbelieve him; much like Haleth the tool was crude but serviceable. "For she was a great builder, of things material and otherwise."

 

_A bit like Turukano_ , Urania thought, with irritation and amusement both.

 

The anger abated.

 

"My condolences…" Carnistir choked out. "… for the loss of your Lady. She was…" _a savage barbarian_ , "… a brave woman."

 

The men bowed to him. He did not invite them to stay on, but gave them his blessing to travel through his lands and food for the way. They departed soon after.

 

But before they were out of an elf's earshot, he heard the elder one whisper to the younger.

 

"It is as the lady always said – the elf-lord Caranthir lacks even a child's knowledge of the world…"

 

His companion nodded in agreement.

 

_Damn you, woman_ , Caranthir thought with gritted teeth. _Damn you to the pit._

 

He set the hoe within the floor of his Hall and Urania used it as her perch from that day onward – and thus it was for all the remainder of the days they spent in Beleriand.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Daemons introduced in this chapter include those of:

 

Haleth:                  Loki, a white-headed buffalo weaver

Haldan:                 Lunelle, a coyote (when settled)

 

And from previous parts –

 

Caranthir:            Urania, a black currawong

 

 

*~*~*

 


	3. Sapajus libindinosus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title refers to the form of Celebrimbor's daemon today, folks.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

_"The Soul-Work of the race of Dwarves is little understood by Elves or Men, save perhaps those few who have been taken into their confidences. In some ways they are as daemons, yet in many ways they are not, for the dwarves are not born alongside the Work and their existence is not bound up with one another. Because of this the dwarves may travel great distances from their Works if need be, though it is thought that doing so creates anxiety within them for the Work's safety such as even the most devoted of smiths of other races cannot feel for their work. Yet some would say this is not so, for certainly there have been elves and men who went to unheard of lengths to safeguard the works of their hands._

_As for the form of the Soul-Work, the ones that elves have seen have most often taken the form of a blade or a jewel, for mostly warriors and merchants of the dwarves have elves seen, and it is understood most dwarves create Soul Work that is easily transportable so as to be carried with them at all times, just as the daemons of elves and men are normally in the forms of smaller animals._

_However, as with elves and men, there are dwarves who are exceptional in this, and perhaps more so than any Child of Illuvatar…"_

 

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

 

A monkey was an uncommon daemon, as daemons went.

 

Feanaro had given Melpomene high praise at her birth, saying that her form – capable of dextrously manipulating tools in its own right – heralded the arrival of a master craftsman, and it appeared he had had some foresight in this. Or perhaps it had been hindsight, for among the few whose daemon had taken forms close to that nature was Mahtan, Celebrimbor's great-grandfather.

 

Melpomene was smaller than Mahtan's Mnemosyne, but Feanaro had had praise for her mostly golden fur as well as her shape, and for the black stripes he'd claimed were the gift of Nerdanel's raven daemon Hephaestus, (they were really nowhere near as black as his plumage). His praises indeed had always been so heavy and in such multitude that Celebrimbor had found them more of a burden of expectation in his youth than an encouragement.

 

And these days, the memory of them turned his stomach.

 

_Best not to dwell while under Mother's eye_ , Melpomene would tell him. _We have the future to look to now._

 

_And we must do what we can_ , he'd agree.

 

Celebrimbor was young, and had not yet attained his majority when his father and grandfather had taken him across the sea to Beleriand. Even years later his father kept him close – close to his and Tyelkormo's halls if not close to their person, for they were often out hunting, exploring, visiting other Noldor princes or sortieing against any and all of Melkor's creatures who happened to encroach on or near their territory – and on or near their other brothers' or cousins' should the occasion call for it. For hunting, exploring and visiting they would often take Celebrimbor and Melpomene along with them. For the sorties, not so much.

 

One can imagine how the son of Curufinwe felt about that. The daughter of Melete likewise. But it seemed there were also other members of the family who felt the same.

 

"He's hardly a little boy anymore though, Atarinke. And if some pretty face turns Tyelkormo's eyes at the wrong moment and his arrow goes through your head, Tyelpe is going to be responsible for the running of all your lands."

 

Still, Celebrimbor was somewhat more bewildered than grateful that it was _Carnistir_ fighting in his corner in this instance.

 

Curufinwe Feanarion gave his next eldest brother a withering glare, but Clio, daemon of Tyelkormo, shrieked angrily and the implication that her elf might be so careless, and he stormed forward with her on his shoulder.

 

"What was that, brother!?" Tyelkormo snapped.

 

"A joke," said Carnistir dryly. "He's Curvo's son, after all, and Curvo can keep him locked in the forge like a pretty, pretty princess smith if he wants. None of my business whatsoever."

 

"Moryo…" said Curufinwe, warningly.

 

"… just make sure _this_ princess doesn't go running off into the woods to disappear, otherwise people will start to think the two of you are careless."

 

Celebrimbor could do no more than cringe as Clio wasted no time swooping off from Tyelkormo's shoulder to lunge for Urania, and Urania – having expected this – turned to meet her at the last moment with a flick of her beak that knocked the other bird off course, yet not enough. Clio was able to claw on to the sleeve of Carnistir's shirt and peck furiously at both him and his daemon, while he hissed and tried to bat her off.

 

A moment later Tyelkormo himself was just about upon him, reaching out for his lapels and yanking him off him seat while his servants looked on anxiously and stricken with indecision, but he was able to hiss out no more than a "You little…!" before Curufinwe rolled his eyes, ran over and pulled one brother of the other.

 

"Brother, _brother_!" he said, taking Tyelkormo back a few steps. "Come on, ignore him – he's in one of his moods, you know how he is."

 

Tyelkormo shook him off but did not lunge back for Carnistir, only pointing a finger at him threateningly and furiously before storming away. Clio hastened back to his shoulder.

 

"What's been festering away in your thoughts today, Sister?" Melete asked – with less patience than her elf displayed. "We heard your pet woman passed on, are you having trouble finding a new one? To take out on walks and play fetch?"

 

But Urania gave her sister a look that Melete flinched from, and said only, "Shut up, Sister."

 

At this point, Celebrimbor felt it might be an idea to quietly slip out of the room and let the three-and-three of them sort things out for themselves.

 

_Think we can make it without them noticing?_

 

Melpomene, who did not cling to his shoulder by habit like most daemons of her type but preferred to walk on all fours by his side, scampered across the room while the others argued, testing where the eyes of her mother and aunts wandered while she did so. Celebrimbor watched the elves.

 

_Nope,_ she thought. _They're all focused on each other._

 

_Well, I say we make a break for it then._

 

And they did, as soon as Curufinwe had crept closer to Carnistir and in doing so turned his back further around. Celebrimbor moved quickly, though his instinct was to edge his way to the door slowly, but he had experience enough to know that unless the movements were so slow as to be barely perceptible, they would be perceived. Walking out, as long as it was not done at a highly noticeable run, left less time for one of the other six sets of eyes in the room to catch sight of his retreat and less still for them to make anything of it.

 

He even threw over his shoulder, "We'll be in our chambers," at the quarrelling siblings before he pulled down the handle on the door and swung it open. He heard no call for him to halt, nor waited to close the door quietly, and did not think it likely Curufinwe would deign to chase after him thence.

 

_Could be he's glad I've gone,_ he thought miserably. _Since there are so many confidences between Feanaro's sons that I am not taken into._

 

_Those confidences are often of those three alone_ , pointed out Melpomene. _And often only Mother-and-Father and Clio-and-Celegorm._

 

_And those are the ones I feel someone should be listening in on the most_ , thought Celebrimbor. _But not today. We argued almost the whole time on the road here._

 

_Mother-and-Father are not as secure as they once were, in their hearts,_ Melpomene mused. _Since Pandora was consigned to dust, they fear like they never did before._

 

"They will never say it though," muttered Celebrimbor, out loud.

 

Elf and monkey walked the tall corridors of Carnistir's great house in silence for a while. They passed  a few silent servants but felt not like greeting them with more than a nod to their bows and curtseys. Celebrimbor didn't honestly think the argument of the others would get out of hand – even without Maedhros there to reign them in or some outsider to pull them together – but Carnistir was contrary, Tyelkormo was volatile, and as for his father… well, he often didn't help matters, if there was aught that he felt could be learned by not helping. And none of their daemons were known for being particularly reconciliatory.

 

On their way they passed by a tapestry showing Feanaro and Pandora facing down the balrog bravely, the flames from Pandora's wings stretching out to rival their foe's in size. But Celebrimbor only shuddered at the sight, and wondered why Carnistir had had it made.

 

They were almost at the end of the long corridor before the silence was broken.

 

"Carnistir _is_ in a mood today," Melpomene commented with a sigh. "Do you suppose he is really grieving for the death of Haleth?"

 

"I couldn't say," Celebrimbor replied, shrugging. "It doesn't seem like the sort of thing he'd grieve for, obviously, but I don't know." He frowned. "He has been doing some strange things."

 

"Like setting that hoe in the floor of the hall."

 

"For one."

 

They walked on.

 

"We should definitely have a comeback ready if he calls us a princess again," said Melpomene, when they reached the staircase towards the guest chambers.

 

"Preferably one that doesn't involve making light of the tragedies of our kin?"

 

"That _is_ what I was thinking."

 

After they'd ascended the stairs the door to their chamber was but around the corner – close enough that Curufinwe had wondered dryly if they hadn't been given them solely so one of them might get up in the night and in the darkness fall down the stairs and break a bone or two. Such an idea was ludicrous, and had not been suggested in seriousness, but thinking back on it now Celebrimbor wondered if there wasn't some reason his father and Tyelkormo had been annoyed with Carnistir before they'd arrived. Something about his dealings with the mortals, perhaps.

 

And speaking of whom…

 

Celebrimbor opened the wooden door overlaid with iron-work to an unexpected sight. A _person_ was in their chambers already.

 

Not a servant of his or his father's or Tyelkormo's, for as far as he was aware they didn't tend to keep in their service people little over half the height of an elf with hair growing out of their face that was longer than that on their head.

 

"Huh?" he said. The other turned to look at him sharply.

 

Celebrimbor knew this interloper for a dwarf at once, and knew also that Carnistir had much contact with them, but what one was doing in the guest wing that had been reserved for him and his father and Tyelkormo, he couldn't have said.

 

So for the time being, he just sort of… stared. The dwarf peered back, just as curiously.

 

The first thing that struck him, this being the closest he'd ever been to a dwarf, was not how there were no daemon to be seen. Daemons were often hidden, or just out of sight.

 

_You certainly might hide one in that beard!_ Melpomene exclaimed in thought.

 

Indeed, the dwarf stood up to his full height of 'not a lot' and seemed himself dwarfed by the curtain of dark hair shot with silver hanging from his chin. It reached his _thighs_ , for goodness' sake! And it was decorated with a large and complex ornament, intricate patterns wrought exquisitely in what seemed to be fine steel accented with mithril, if Celeborn's eyes did not deceive him, the pattern running sparse over most of the beard but being more concentrated in a few areas, one in particular of those catching Celebrimbor's eyes…

 

"Well, don't just stand there," said the dwarf at length, ushering Celebrimbor toward the door. "Be on your way!"

 

Celebrimbor cocked his head. "This… is my room," he said, and even to himself he sounded more uncertain than he would have liked.

 

"Is it?" asked the dwarf. He looked around at the clearly elf-sized furniture.

 

There was a pause. Then he cleared his throat.

 

"Ah, I must have wandered into the wrong rooms," he said casually. "I'm very old, you know – look," he proffered one of his greying forelocks bunched with a long, smaller ornament than the one that was in his beard, but similarly patterned, "My hair is starting to lose its colour; my wits are going with it."

 

Celebrimbor folded his arms – the trespasser's hair was only half-grey and the dark eyes were clearly sharp. "That may have worked a hundred years ago," he told him, "but my people have enough experience of mortals now to know what one looks like when the passage of time has brought them close to death, and they do not look like you."

 

"Oh, so I've the good fortune of being in the presence of one who knows everything, do I? Must be my lucky day."

 

"Not if you're a thief, since I just caught you."

 

"A thief!?" the dwarf blustered, shaking his fist. "I ought to strike you down for that, Elf!"

 

Quickly, Celebrimbor took note of the fact that this intruder had no weapons.

 

"Why else would you be in mine and my father's rooms? Unless you were an assassin, sent by Morgoth."

 

"Your tongue grows more audacious by the moment, Elf, and mind you that someone won't have it out one of these days. Now that you mention it, I suppose that if I lost my way to my own rooms, I might have accidentally wandered into those of Lord Caranthir's brother, Lord Curufin, who I have heard is the greatest smith of all the elves who came across the sea still living." He peered around the room. "I wonder if there are any examples of his craftsmanship about…"

 

Oh, so _that_ was what the dwarf was doing here. With relief, Celebrimbor heard Melpomene sigh and hop up onto the bed for a closer look at this strange person while he conversed.

 

"If you came here hoping to see my father's craft you certainly made a gamble of it. He's not as nice as I am when it comes to uninvited guests, you know."

 

"Father?" asked the dwarf.

 

"Curufinwe," said Celebrimbor, before wondering if it might not have been better to use the Sindarin, as the dwarf had, "son of Feanaro, who they call Feanor. I am Curufinwe's son Celebrimbor."

 

He didn't wonder about using the Sindarin for his own name. Though he knew it would have vexed his father, the syllables of the language of the land they dwelt in rested more easily on his tongue these days.

 

"Master Elf," said the dwarf, bowing. "They call me Telchar, son of Telra."

 

Telchar?!

 

"Telchar of Nogrod!?" Celebrimbor exclaimed, eyes widening. "Do you speak true? I can't tell you how long I have desired to meet the one held to be the greatest smith of all the Children of Aule!"

 

"Of course it's true!" bellowed Telchar. "Dwarves don't lie!"

 

_And that_ , Melpomene thought, _would explain much – for didn't we hear Telchar was a bit… eccentric?_

 

_He's the greatest smith of the dwarves_ , thought Celebrimbor in turn. _How many of those we know with 'the greatest smith of' preceding their names have been normal?_

 

_True, but he does not have a bird aflame like Grandmother._

 

_Dwarves don't have daemons either way. Only Mock-Daemons. Can you tell… ?_

 

Realising that he was spending too long conversing with Melpomene, Celebrimbor quickly shook himself out of his surprise and said –

 

"Then it is my honour, my lord. I will show you something of my father's construction."

 

_You think that wise?_ Melpomene wondered.

 

_You're the smart one,_ he told her. _What do you think?_

 

They knew what one another thought. Seeing the dwellings built by the Sindar around the Falas, their craft and little else of native Beleriand workmanship had not stirred Curufinwe to learn of their ways, for it had seemed to him that they had little enough to teach. However, with both the land inside the Girdle of Melian and the halls of the dwarves forbidden to them, Celebrimbor had never been so sure that there was not learning to be had from the Sindar and the dwarves. And though from time to time the glint of some metal caught his eye that he was told came out of Menegroth, in most cases the craft he saw that had interested him had been of dwarven origin.

 

Half-people, as his father called them, while Melete would titter on his shoulder. _He_ had never liked to be around them and nor had Celegorm, citing their lack of daemons as unnatural and disturbing. It had been Findarato, last they'd visited Nargothrond, who had pointed out to Celebrimbor that without a daemon to focus on, his father and uncle's famously considerable powers of mind-seeing were all but useless – and that had intrigued Celebrimbor perhaps as much even as the renown of the dwarves' craftsmanship.

 

For one whose heart was apparently an open book, as Curufinwe was forever telling him, the power of his father to know his heart by Melpomene's look alone was stifling. For a long time Celebrimbor had wished to…

 

Well, he should really be keeping his mind focused on the task at hand, he thought. Now, what of the several works of his father that were at hand should he use to make the first impression?

 

_Dwarves are supposed to be a war-like race_ , Melpomene reminded him. _Show him a weapon!_

 

_Seax or short-sword?_ he wondered

 

_Short-sword_ , thought Melpomene. _I think that one's more impressive_.

 

Celebrimbor went for the sword propped up in its scabbard against the dresser in the corner of his father's side of the wing, which was removed to a slightly higher level than his own through a curtained arch. He hurried back to his own side of the wing to rest the item upon his bed, and sat down next to it, making him slightly shorter now than the dwarf. He drew the blade without fanfare.

 

"This is actually something my father and I made together," he told the dwarf, laying the blade on the long, dove-grey cushion. "That is, I made the hilt – to his design – and he constructed the blade. Also to his design, of course."

 

He looked quickly from the sword – checking it to see if there were any defects he might have missed the last thousand or so times he'd looked at it – to Telchar, checking for his reaction. The dwarf's eyebrows went right up and his lips parted a little, sharp eyes scouring the surface of the blade even as Celebrimbor did, and did so for what seemed a long time before he actually reached out to hold it.

 

The sword (hilt included) was about the length of Celebrimbor's arm, not counting the hand, which may not have seemed as 'short' to dwarves as it did to elves, he thought on reflection. The blade was about two-and-a-half fingers in width, had no design on its length but for the runes in which a standard orc-locating spell was woven, simply made of fine steel that may indeed have been mined out of Nogrod or one of its satellites, while the hilt had an inlay of golden branches around the crossbar that twined up to a silver Star of Feanor at the pommel.

 

Telchar twirled it around in his hand slowly, appraising it from every angle.

 

"Light," was the first thing he said. "Even more than most elf-blades I've handled."

 

"No reduction in strength for it," assured Celebrimbor.

 

"Well, appreciative as I am that you're trusting enough to hand it over to a shady-looking stranger who wandered into your room, I won't test that particular claim out on you today."

 

Celebrimbor blinked. Now that the dwarf mentioned it, his doing that did sound unwise… but on the other hand, this was Telchar! Asking to see an example of work from his family – how could he refuse?

 

"And my eyes may not be as sharp as an elf's," Telchar continued, "but I know how sharp a blade is when I see it, and what good quality the steel, and how well-tempered – and I know the proper form of the script of your people too, and how carefully the rune-work has been cast."

 

He knew elven spellwork, as well as their script?! This was a learned dwarf indeed, and well-respected by at least one elven craftsman to have been so taught! But Celebrimbor held his breath and waited for Telchar's verdict on the sword before flattering him, though the anticipation was nerve-wracking, and Melpomene scampered over to him and climbed up to cling onto his shoulder as she rarely did, for she was almost as anxious.

 

"Yes," said Telchar, at length. His eyes flickered from the blade to Celebrimbor's, and then to Melpomene's, and he smiled. "Master Elf," he announced. "Your work is second to one, among your race."

 

"Meaning my grandfather?" Celebrimbor asked, thoroughly relieved. "But how does it compare to that of your people? Could it be considered… a Mock-Daemon?"

 

As soon as he said it Celebrimbor feared it had been unwise, since who knew how sacredly dwarves held the talk of their mock-daemons? He felt the heat rise to his cheeks even before Telchar snorted with laughter.

 

He couldn't hold back a much greater burst of laughter after that though, and Celebrimbor had to wait what felt like a full half-minute before Telchar collected himself. Melpomene sank slightly against his back.

 

_Well, I don't think it was that funny,_ she thought. Celebrimbor just waited with bemusement.

 

Eventually Telchar had had enough of slapping his own thighs to exclaim, " 'Mock-Daemon' indeed! Oh, you elves – you'll be the death of me! Nay, Master Celebrimbor, this is fine work to be sure, but it is not Soul Work – and not was the elf whose craft I compared your father's with your grandfather."

 

"I suppose you've not had a chance to see Feanaro's work," said Melpomene with a sigh.

 

Telchar raised his eyebrows to be addressed by the monkey, and Celebrimbor realised he had not introduced her.

 

"Melpomene," he said, nodding towards her. "My daemon."

 

"A pleasure," said Telchar. "But in fact I have seen some of your grandfather's work. A headdress of a sort run through with the finest amethysts I've ever seen. Lord Caranthir was good enough to show me, and I'll admit it near enough left me speechless."

 

Celebrimbor knew what he spoke of. "The Crowns of Blood," he said, nodding. "The gift he made for all his sons upon their attaining their majorities." And Celebrimbor himself, though he didn't wish to mention that when the piece was hidden now in a place he had no intention of revisiting. Admitting that out loud would invite his father hearing of it, and then there would be words between them for sure. "My father's had diamonds for its decoration."

 

Emeralds for Maitimo. Sapphires for Makalaure. Rubies for Tyelkormo. Opal and pearl for Amburussa elder and younger.

 

Lapis lazuli for him. So beautiful he sometimes still thought of digging it out.

 

"But who then do you say Curufin's work is second to?" asked Melpomene, to take their mind off that memory as much as anything.

 

Something then was in Telchar's face that Celebrimbor couldn't quite describe, like he thought he never should have mentioned it or like the answer was awkward somehow.

 

However, he did speak of it at length. "Ah, I don't think you'd have heard of him. I make the comparison only in respect to weaponry, you see, for I've never seen any _blade_ forged by your grandfather and the elf I'm thinking of doesn't much care for jewellery. But he is the only one of your kind I have known who could be capable of creating 'Soul Work'."

 

Celebrimbor was curious, but about many things now, and the first thing he wanted to know…

 

"Will you tell me about Soul Work?"

 

Telchar searched his eyes a long time after that, and longer did he search Melpomene's. This seemed strange, for Celebrimbor would not have thought a member of a race without daemons would be able to glean much understanding from the daemon of one who did.

 

Yet, at length, he brought one hand up to the ornament on his beard and pressed two protrusions of the steel together, then with his other hand removed from elsewhere on the ornament a small piece of it, that must have been connected to the mechanism he'd triggered. _I knew it!_ Melpomene exclaimed mentally, for they had noticed that strangeness in the steel. The small piece, it was soon revealed, was a tiny blade – and an ingenious way around Carnistir's restrictive policies when it came to outsiders carrying weapons in his halls, Celebrimbor thought.

 

_That blade is his mock-daemon? So he was hiding it in his beard after all!_

 

"Worry not," said Telchar. "This is only kept in case any of those assassins you were worried about are wandering through your uncle's halls. _He_ certainly seems concerned enough about them when he demands we secure our larger blades in his armoury, Soul-Work or no."

 

He proffered forth the blade as though asking Celebrimbor to take hold of it – a two-and-a-half inch length slightly curved with a flat rectangular handle of another three-quarter inches, as exquisitely wrought as any work of the Noldor Celebrimbor had seen, despite its size – and Celebrimbor flinched back instinctively, for if a Mock-Daemon was anything like a true daemon, then for him to lay a hand upon it would have been unthinkable –

 

"Go on," said Telchar. "Soul-Work is not the same as a daemon; it was made by our hands and it is for the hands, so long as it is freely offered."

 

So Celebrimbor took it, and Melpomene immediately snatched it out of his hand.

 

"Is this really Soul-Work though?" she asked, turning it over and back. "I admit it seems to me there is something about it, something like…"

 

Telchar grinned. "Go on," he told her.

 

She exchanged a look with Celebrimbor. _Should we tell him?_

 

_I don't see why not_ , he told her.

 

"Like the things that _I_ have made with my own hands," she said, "and not with my elf's. It's something not a lot of daemons can do. But something in my heart tells me this is more like that than like me – is that what Soul Work is like?"

 

"Ah," said Telchar, grinning wider, "now I make my confession. As you have guessed, this is not Soul Work, for mine is something I cannot take with me when I travel, but there is something of the soul about it, and something you will not see in the work of many other dwarves, I think. For all our work is Soul-Work, to some extent or another, yet One is always the most special of our works, and if it is destroyed it may never be created again; though a new Soul Work might be wrought, yet that work would be different. That, my friend, is the nature of my people."

 

"Then all works of the dwarves are as special as this?" asked Melpomene.

 

Telchar huffed. "Well, I'd hardly be taking pride in my title of 'greatest smith of Nogrod' if I said all the others were just as good. But they cannot craft their works as I can. I'll leave it to you to guess why not."

 

Celebrimbor blinked. "You won't tell us, then?"

 

"Hah! Where would be the fun in that for me, Master Elf?"

 

"… I suppose I couldn't say."

 

"Indeed!" The dwarf held out his hand and Celebrimbor took the little assassin-foiler back from Melpomene to return to him. He slid it back into the beard-ornament forthwith, where it clicked into place. "But that's enough free lessons in the ways of dwarves for one afternoon, I must be on my way!"

 

"May we not meet again, Lord Telchar?"

 

The dwarf grinned. "I'll be staying here a while yet," he assured him.

 

"Then I will hope to see you soon," Celebrimbor said, smiling, though in his mind the thought – _not long enough, no doubt, and no hope that Father would give me leave to travel to the realms of Dwarves._

 

The two shook hands, as was becoming popularised by the dissemination of Men into Beleriand, and promised to meet again while they were both Carnistir's guests. Then Telchar made his way out, (Melpomene watched to make sure his curiosity didn't lead him further into the family guest wing) leaving Celebrimbor sitting beside the sword he had made with his father, looking at it with new eyes.

 

"What's wrong?" asked Melpomene, jumping back onto the bed on the opposite side of the sword.

 

Celebrimbor sighed.

 

"I don't know," he said. His daemon crawled around the sword to his side. "As soon as Lord Telchar left I thought… well, you know what I thought."

 

"Mm. He probably won't be staying here too long – especially if he's had to take such a long journey away from this 'Soul-Work' of his already."

 

"Not much time to learn of it from him."

 

"And he said he thought an elf _could_ learn too..."

 

'Soul Work'. A vessel for something of yourself that you could create with your own hands. True, Feanaro would have said all true craftsmen put 'something of themselves' into their work, but this was different somehow, like the difference between something you made for yourself and something you made to the design of another, perhaps.

 

Celebrimbor looked at the sword again, at the hilt. Curufinwe would probably not approve of any attempt to take up the craft of 'half-people', and how could he circumvent his father? Certainly, many had been the nights Celebrimbor had sat in his study and considered leaving for one of his uncles' houses, or father's cousins' or even a totally unrelated realm just so he could say he had done something on his own. Lists had been written; plans made, but to take that decisive step out of his father's door, ah…

 

Not yet, he'd tell himself again. Whatever else, he still did not wish to cause Curufinwe the same pain that had been caused when he and Melpomene's mother-and-father had gone back to Tirion with Arafinwe after Aqualonde. Not when seeing that pain had been what had decided them on staying on _despite_ Aqualonde.

 

Not yet. _Not yet_ , Melpomene agreed. He put the sword back in the scabbard and returned it to where he had brought it from.

 

"I'm sure we could figure out what was special about that hidden blade though, if we thought about it," Melpomene said. "And that might save us some time for Lord Telchar to teach us more."

 

"Hmm… I was never very good at puzzles. You said it was like something you had made instead of me? But it couldn't have been made by his daemon… because he doesn't have one."

 

"Maybe it was made by a family member? Does Telchar have a son, or a brother maybe? That might be like another part of him."

 

Celebrimbor looked back towards the short-sword. "I don't think so."

 

Melpomene huffed. "Well, then it could be something he used to make it – a tool, for instance, could be his Soul Work, couldn't it?"

 

"But he said he couldn't take it with him, so it must be something fixed, or too heavy to lift. Even the heaviest of hammers I could take with me on journeys. A vice would be in a fixed position, maybe?"

 

"Except a vice is only to hold a tool in place, it doesn't craft it."

 

They were silent for a moment, thinking – each one with their chin resting on their knuckles.

 

"It must have been done by him and him alone," thought Celebrimbor aloud. "What else do you work with when you are alone?" he wondered out loud.

 

"Just you and the forge…" mused Melpomene.

 

Then they both looked at each other, and cried out together in realisation –

 

" _The forge_!"

 

*~*~*

 

 

Deep in the halls of Nogrod, guarded well against all who would attempt to use it without its maker's leave, a forge slept cold as though preserved perfectly in ice and waited for her Dwarf to return.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Daemons introduced in this chapter include those of:

 

Celebrimbor:                     Melpomene, a black-striped capuchin

Telchar:                             has no true daemon, as he is a dwarf, but his 'Soul-Work' is a forge         

 

And from previous parts –

 

Celegorm:                           Clio, a long-tailed shrike – her cap fully black

Caranthir:                            Urania, a black currawong

Curufin:                               Melete, an eclectus parrot

 

 

*~*~*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might want to think twice about creating 'Soul Work', Celebrimbor. I sense your attempts might take the form of certain rings...

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, Finrod might have edited the above story for effect when it came to retelling it to his people. "Me? Fall out of the bushes like a moron? Never!" Lol.


End file.
